


221B: The Awakening

by AprilFool



Series: 221B [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Anxiety, Army Doctor John Watson, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Bullying, Chemistry, Confused Sherlock, Crying Sherlock, Cute, Cute Sherlock, Embarrassed Sherlock, Falling In Love, Fear, First Love, First Time, Freak, Horny Teenagers, Hurt, Hurt Sherlock, Inexperienced Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, LGBTQ Themes, Loneliness, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, Orgasm, Poor Sherlock, Sad, School, Sexual Content, Sexual Inexperience, Sexy John, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, Sherlock in Love, Sherlock is Alone, Shy Sherlock, Sweet Sherlock, Synesthesia, Tears, Teen Angst, Teen Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Wet Dream, Young Sherlock, anxious sherlock, soft, soft sherlock, teen!lock, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 01:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10979937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AprilFool/pseuds/AprilFool
Summary: Sherlock gives in to his urges. He also remembers his first sexual experiences, which was a sad episode in his life.





	221B: The Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you'll enjoy the 4th part of my series :)

John stands under the waterfall, drops sparkle in his hair, on his bare chest. The river’s water hides his lower abdomen that Sherlock is eager to see. He wants to join John, wants to lick off every single bead, wants to taste his skin.  
But Sherlock just keeps staring. Watches how John’s hands disappear under water. He can just imagine what they do under the surface. John’s face tells him, pupils dark, lips parted.  
Sherlock gasps.  
He opens his eyes widely. He is confused.  
No waterfall, no John.  
Sherlock lies in his bed. Needs a few seconds to adjust to his surroundings.  
The dream is gone. But it has left something. Sherlock’s pants are wet and sticky.  
_Confused_.  
By the dream. By what has happened.  
He has experienced something like this before. But dreaming of John is new.  
Next door the shower is turned on.  
_John._  
A twitch between Sherlock’s legs, a dragging in his loins.  
He moves his hips to get rid of that feeling. Doesn’t help.  
Breathing in, breathing out.  
_Focus_.  
It’s hard to banish the thoughts of the other man, naked. Distraction is what his mind needs now. An experiment.

He gets up, needs to change his pants first. Clean himself. But not while John is still showering.  
He wraps himself in nothing but his morning robe and walks into the kitchen. On the table his petri dishes, filled with household filth, are still waiting to be looked at under the microscope.  
Also, today seems to be a good day to examine John’s bedroom, Sherlock thinks.  
But for now he sits down, prepares an object slide. Some fibre from the living room.  
He hears the bathroom door open. Footsteps. Bare feet.  
“Good morning. You are up early”, John says as he joins his flatmate in the kitchen.  
Sherlock looks up. The object slide slips out of his fingers. The fibre is lost. Doesn’t matter. Sherlock has to look at something else now. _Someone_ else.  
John, freshly showered, wearing nothing more than jeans. Tight jeans that don’t hide the wealth of his crotch. No waistband of any pants is shown. Sherlock’s eyes linger on the path that goes down from John’s navel. Dark blond hairs. Short, newly grown. They weren’t visible a few days before when John wore the towel.  
Sherlock’s lips part. His breathing goes shorter now. Feels the twitch again, feels more than just that.  
Strength, longing, bewilderment.  
“Is there anything wrong with my trousers?”, John asks.  
Sherlock jumps from his chair, runs past John into the bathroom. Locks the door behind him. He can’t bear it anymore. Has to calm the heat that builds inside him, between his legs, inside his loins. He undresses, his pants are dry now. When he steps into the shower a single translucent bead falls down.  
Sherlock pulls the handle. Cold water extinguishes the flames.

 

Sherlock leaves the bathroom the moment John is gone to work. Dressed again in nothing more than his robe. He is restless, can’t focus his thoughts. But still, he grabs a bunch of petri dishes, goes up the stairs to John’s bedroom.  
Household filth collection. _Now_.  
Sherlock pushes the door open, enters the room. A moment he stays still. The curtains are half closed so everything lays in dim light. It’s quiet, even the street outside keeps silent. Sherlock takes a deep breath, smells John’s perfume. A shiver goes through his body.  
He closes the door, sinks on the wooden floor. No dust at first glance. He bends down, looks under the bed, makes a find. No dirt but a magazine. That hasn’t been there the last time Sherlock has checked, three weeks ago.  
Sherlock drags the magazine from under the bed, takes a look.  
Attitude. Last month’s copy.  
_Really?_  
The cover shows a British actor with curly hair. He looks a bit like Sherlock.  
With a pounding heart Sherlock flips through the pages.  
Men in submissive and dominant poses, obscene and alluring. Nearly naked. Reviews of toys Sherlock has never heard of. An interview with the actor, a British sex symbol.  
Sherlock closes the magazine, hastily.  
His eyes are big. Startled and baffled.  
_But John is straight, isn’t he?_  
He tosses the magazine back under the bed.  
The petri dishes won’t get filled today.  
Sherlock is intrigued. Keen on searching for more evidence on John’s sexuality. And he is something else that he doesn’t have a name for yet. Something that lays deep inside him.

He starts browsing the bedside locker. But its contents are the same as three weeks ago. Nothing new. Nothing special.  
_Boring_.  
He collapses on the bed, bobs around a bit. John’s mattress is too hard. But the sheets smell gorgeous. Like John.  
Sherlock rubs his cheek on the pillow, imagines John lays right behind him. He sighs. He actually sighs a lot lately.  
He wants to spend the whole day in this bed. Between the sheets that’ve touched John’s skin a few hours ago.  
He moves into a more comfortable position and his robe shifts. The sheets are on his bare legs now. His skin tingles. There is a small movement between his thighs, like a memory of the dream he had earlier this morning.

Sherlock jumps up. He can’t let this happen. He has to keep himself busy.  
So he turns to the wardrobe.  
The inside is a mess. Hasn’t been tidied up for three weeks.  
He starts organising John’s clothes. It takes longer than usual today. Sherlock presses his face into each jumper, each t-shirt. He needs to absorb John’s smell. Aftershave, perfume, washing powder, sanitizer, sweat. Masculine.  
The shirts get organised by colour, the trousers by length.  
Then Sherlock kneels down, empties the content of two baskets on the floor. Socks and pants.  
John has new ones, Sherlock notices. Pants, not socks. Two dark grey pinstriped boxers. They look…nice. Sherlock swallows. Wonders if John has ever worn them. An image flickers through his mind, sends sparks through his body. He has to part his legs a bit to still sit comfortable. He goes on with the tidying up.

When the two baskets are organised Sherlock turns to a big dark box in the furthest corner of the wardrobe. He has opened it before. Just once. Its content has made something to Sherlock that has scared and confused him.  
But today there is an urge inside him to open the box again, to take out all the stuff, to let the _something_ happen.  
Sherlock heaves the box on the floor, opens the lid.  
There it is. John’s past. Complete combat gear, uniform, tags, gun.

With shaking hands Sherlock takes out the army trousers. If he could see John wearing them just one time!  
His fingers slide over the heavy material. Between his thighs a fire starts burning. First it’s nothing more than a glow. But when the image of a half-naked John wearing nothing but these army trousers doesn’t vanish, it starts to grow bigger and wilder, sprawls out into every corner of Sherlock’s body.  
He gasps, opens his eyes widely, can’t see anything but John. There is a bulge in John’s trousers, even bigger than the one under Sherlock’s robe now. And Sherlock wants nothing more than to touch it, to touch _himself_.  
But he has never given in to the compulsion. Only when he was a teenager, and even then it was just a few times to test this new function of his body. He never had anyone to share his experiences or feelings with. So he decided to neglect this whole part. It worked fine. Until recently. Until John.

He can’t help it anymore. His hand glides down his loins. His mind doesn’t really know what to do, but his body tells him.  
An explosion of colourful, blazing fireworks shoots through Sherlock when he finally grabs himself. He is astonished and amazed. Confused, intrigued, fascinated.  
He starts to move his hand, cautious. His mind, not as productive as usual the last days, goes completely blank. Sensation and colours are everything that is left inside him.  
And John. Hundreds of images of John whirr in his mind’s eye. Tangling photographs in the storm of his fire.  
It’s a tiny bit romantic, although masturbation isn’t romantic at all to Sherlock, as far as he has an opinion on that.  
He falls backwards onto the hard floor, parts his legs even further, claws John’s army trousers with his left hand.  
Oh, how much he wishes John was here with him right now! Leaning over him, kissing him.  
His hand is wet with dew from his length. With every stroke it makes a smacking noise now, rather vulgar.  
He arches his back, his left hand tenses into a fist.  
And then the ceiling breaks apart, he is falling into space. Galaxies form and explode. Moments pass, millions of moments.  
Sherlock cries out, something between a sigh and a growl. He has let go of everything.

When he takes a deep breath the world around him shifts back into place.  
He has fallen down from the sky, lays on the floor in John’s room again. Becomes aware of the big wet splodges on his stomach. Suddenly the excitement is gone, leaves purple sadness.  
Sherlock sits up, his knees feel wobbly. He is too afraid to stand up now. Semen runs down his lower abdomen, his hand is damp and sticky. He feels dirty. Not just on the outside.  
His head feels dizzy, he blinks a few times, finally gets up.  
He storms out of John’s room, down the stairs, right into the bathroom. Tosses his robe on the tiles. He needs to shower. Doesn’t even bother to wait until the water turns warm.  
Sherlock frantically rubs his body clean. Doesn’t want to leave any reminder of what he has just done. But he can’t wash his memories away. And he doesn’t even know why he feels so distressed and sad and dirty right now.  
He holds his face into the pouring water so he can pretend that there are no tears in his eyes.  
He thinks of John. Wishes he could tell him. Wishes that John would explain these weird feelings.  
Sherlock turns off the water. He takes one of his very big bathing towels from the shelf and wraps himself in it. He sinks down on the cold tiles.  
A memory gets entangled in his thoughts.

 

He is fifteen, already tall, but a bit too skinny. His hair is even messier back then.  
And there is this boy Sherlock really likes, thinks of him way too often. Adam.  
They go to the same school, have chemistry class together. He sits right in front of Sherlock, has two little birthmarks on his neck.  
One day their teacher says the words Sherlock is eager to hear: “Adam, you work together with Sherlock.”  
Adam is too polite to protest, but their classmates giggle, exchange pitiful glances. It’s a punishment to work with Sherlock Holmes, all the more if it’s a chemistry project. And while Adam is a popular football player, fancied by every girl and boy, every teacher and parent, Sherlock is the freak.  
But right now Sherlock doesn’t hear the mean comments made by his classmates. Happiness tickles inside him. His lips curve into a tiny smile.  
Adam turns around. He has blond hair and beaming eyes.  
“Three weeks, mate”, he says. No one has called Sherlock “mate” before. A yellow curve appears inside his stomach.  
“Three weeks?”, Sherlock repeats questioning.  
Adam laughs, not unfriendly. “That’s how long we have to work on our project. Mrs Jones just told us so. But I guess you’ve already figured out everything, have the whole experiment worked through in your head.”  
Mrs Jones had told them? Sherlock doesn’t miss information, never. But he doesn’t even know the topic of their project!  
_Confusing_.

He must have looked puzzled because Adam now giggles. “Manner of reaction of alkanes”, he helps out.  
“Oh, yes, right. Easy”, Sherlock stutters. His cheeks turn hot.  
_What was the topic again?_  
But how can he concentrate on this dull project when Adam smells that good? Like freshly cut grass and shampoo.  
How can he focus on anything else than these bright blue eyes?

A sudden pain lets Sherlock gasp. It shoots through his lower abdomen. His trousers grow very tight around his crotch. He shifts on his chair but can’t find a comfortable position.  
“Everything alright?” Adam has noticed Sherlock’s strange behaviour.  
“Toilet”, Sherlock breathes through clenched teeth and storms out of the classroom.  
The hallways are empty and he reaches the boys’ lavatory without any interruption. He locks himself into one of the cubicles. Presses his back against the cool tiles, opens his trousers. He has a massive erection.  
_Bawdy_.  
But he doesn’t care about his own thoughts right now. Anyway, it’s sheer impossible to even think straight.  
He has become nothing more than a cliché, Sherlock realises.  
And he hates it. But he can’t help it.  
And because he is alone in this little cubicle and because he doesn’t care about what his mind thinks – probably for the first time in his life – he gives in to the arousal in his length. He lets his hand slide into his pants, grabs his cock. An astonished gasp leaves his lips.  
_This feels so good. Relieving_.  
Sherlock hasn’t done this many times before. And it has always been in the safety of his own room, under the duvet, in the middle of the night. Too embarrassed to do such things during daylight. But today, now, the urge is too strong to bear anymore.  
The first strokes are slow and hesitant, but his grip is firm. He sighs with satisfaction. His head turns backwards, eyes closed.  
_Adam_.  
The name lingers on his tongue.  
His smell, his eyes.  
Sherlock imagines how it would feel to touch the other boy’s wavy hair. To kiss his freckled face, to lick over these pale lips.  
His hand moves faster, his fingers are clotty with translucent liquid. Smacking noises fill the otherwise really quiet restroom. A clutter of tension builds inside him, his cock twitches and Sherlock has to let go. He clenches his teeth to stop himself from crying out when his cock tenses and releases a hot stream of semen in his hand. In waves the orgasm rushes through his body, most intense in his loins and urethra.

Right then he hears that the door gets opened.  
“Sherlock?”, Adam asks.  
_Oh, bugger!_  
Adam knocks on the cubicle’s door. “Are you okay?”  
“Yes. Yes, I am okay. Bit of an upset stomach”, Sherlock lies. He frantically tries to close his trousers with one hand. The excitement of the orgasm is completely gone and he is mad at himself. Why did he give in to such a primordial need while at school?  
_Stupid!_  
“Alright. I’ll go back to class. We still have fifteen minutes left. And three weeks in total.”  
But their project doesn’t last longer than two days. And that’s not because Sherlock has already finished everything.

 

In the next chemistry lesson they sit next to each other, heads tilted over one book. Sherlock has forgotten his. It was planned. So they have to share Adam’s. Their faces are just inches apart from each other. And while Adam reads, eyes flickering over the sentences, Sherlock observes his features.  
_Oh, these adorable freckles!_  
A strand of hair touches Adam’s cheek, Sherlock wants to brush it away. But, of course, he doesn’t do so, continues staring instead.  
He feels a movement in his pants, the fabric brushes over the tip of his cock.  
_Please, not again!_  
He has had four orgasms, yesterday only. He has turned into a wanking mass, a clichéd teenage boy.  
_Awful._  
Once more Sherlock wants to touch himself. He jiggles around. Claws his fingers into his thighs.  
Adam smells gorgeous. He had PE in the first lesson, the scent of his shampooed hair has intensified.  
Sherlock dreams of a naked Adam showering.  
God, he can’t stand these fantasies anymore! They invaded his mind like parasites. And the only way to quieten his thoughts and body down a bit is by masturbating. He needs to go to the loo again.  
Adam gives him a suspicious look when he leaves the class room again.

Sherlock embraces the coolness of the restroom. His cheeks are flushed. He hides in the last cubicle in the row.  
His fingers fumble with his trousers’ zipper. His cock aches because of the pressure.  
Bang!  
The door flies open, laughter enters.  
Sherlock freezes. It’s the boys from his chemistry class, Adam’s clique.  
“Freak!” The voice belongs to Jimmy, a broad-shouldered idiot who loves to bully weaker people, especially Sherlock.  
“Come out”, coos Jimmy. “We know that you’re in here.”  
Sherlock panics. He is trapped inside the cubicle.  
The door is teared open. He has forgotten to lock it!  
Sherlock just stares, eyes opened widely.  
“There you are.” Jimmy smiles. It’s not just mean, it’s sardonic. Behind him Geoff and Christian make a face. Sherlock has never understood how someone like Adam could be friends with such berks.

“Poof.”  
Jimmy hasn’t said that. But he has.  
Something inside Sherlock shatters.  
“You’re disgusting! Knock yourself out over Adam in a public toilet? That’s sick. We should tell the teachers.” Jimmy blocks the door, the only way out.  
Sherlock presses himself against the wall. Tears sting behind his eyes. He can’t cry now.  
“Please, don’t”, he begs. His voice is shaking.  
Jimmy comes a step closer, is in the small cubicle now. “Your pants are still open. Ready to wank, right?”  
“Go away”, Sherlock whispers. Blushes with shame.  
“Afraid? You better are. You know what we do with freaks like you.”  
Yes, Sherlock knows. Has experienced it already.  
But before Jimmy can make a move the door bangs open again.  
“Hey!”  
Adam!

A weight is taken from Sherlock’s chest. A weight that has kept him in place. But now his knees are trembling, the tears are falling.  
“We told you, Adam. He is a fucking poof. We caught him in the act, thinking of you”, Jimmy declares. He moves out of the cubicle so Adam has a clear view of Sherlock’s situation.  
“Go back to class, I’ll follow you in a moment”, Adam says without looking at his friends. His eyes are locked with Sherlock’s.  
The three boys leave and silence creeps back into the room. Sherlock sobs.  
“I didn’t mean to… I never wanted…”, he starts, desperate to explain himself.  
“Shut up. I don’t want to know.” Adam’s voice is cold and harsh, his face stony. With a pitiful look at Sherlock he turns around and leaves.  
The next day Sherlock is told to finish the project without a partner.

 

Sherlock blinks a few times. He is back on the bathroom floor at Baker Street. His bum is cold, his face wet with tears. Fear dances in cruel moves through his veins until it reaches his heart.  
He has to go back to John’s room immediately. Has to put the box away. John mustn’t get any hints of what Sherlock has done in there.  
Sherlock’s scared heart races. He can’t let such an experience as the one with Adam happen to him ever again. He has to stop touching himself, at least.  
He knows that he can’t banish the thoughts of John from his head and heart. But he can try to condition his body to stop reacting to these thoughts. He has to.  
He can’t lose John. And John would be disgusted with his flatmate like Adam and the other boys were.  
Sherlock whimpers.  
And then the truth hits him and he realises something.  
He has fallen in love with John Watson.


End file.
